Free Epilogue II: A Bonus Chapter to Hidden Order by Brad Thor Page A

stuck around long enough to make sure the job was complete. Now, Durkin was talking.
    “He gave up the official in Saudi Intelligence who coordinated everything,” the Old Man continued. “But more importantly, he gave up the plot’s architect—Ahmad Tariki. He’s the Saudi minister of finance and a high-ranking member of the Saudi royal family.”
    Even though he had a feeling he knew the answer, he asked anyway, “What’s waiting for me at Edwards?”
    “A plane. The President wants you to handle Tariki personally.”
    “And the other guy?” Harvath inquired, mindful of the fact that the police officer rushing him toward the base could hear his half of the conversation.
    “The President is giving him to the Jordanians.”
    “How long before they act?”
    “Not long,” said the Old Man. “That’s why you need to get moving. Sloane and Chase are already on their way to Abu Dhabi.”
    “Why? What’s going on there?” said Harvath.
    “They’re arranging a pickup. You, though, are going to Dubai.”
    “Abu Dhabi? Dubai? What’s this all about?”
    The Old Man paused. “How much do you know about the Saudis and their addiction to falconry?”
    D UBAI
    U NITED A RAB E MIRATES
    The Burj Al Arab was the most striking hotel in the world. Seated upon an artificial island a thousand feet from shore, it looked like an enormous sail. Legend had it that the Burj was the only seven-star hotel in the world. Opulent didn’t even come close to describing it. Reminiscent of an Arab ship known as a dhow , it was an iconic structure that rivaled the Sydney Opera House and even the Eiffel Tower itself.
    Falconry was a cultural obsession for many wealthy Middle Easterners. Outsiders referred to their addiction as “feathered cocaine.” There were few falconers as obsessed with their birds as Ahmad Tariki. He had brought his falcons to the world’s premier falcon hospital in Abu Dhabi for their annual checkup and had decided to spend the weekend in Dubai before returning to Saudi Arabia.
    Dubai had a very special reputation amongst wealthy Saudis. For those in the know, it was said that Allah could not see you in Dubai. This meant that almost anything could happen there, and normally did, provided one was willing to pay enough money.
    Tariki had been in town for only twenty-four hours, but had already done a lifetime of living. He particularly liked fair-skinned, blond women from Eastern Europe, and they flocked to Dubai by the planeload. The right girl could send more money to her family in a month than she could make back home in a year. They also didn’t complain if Tariki got rough, which he usually did. They knew any reports to the authorities, especially against a powerful Saudi, would only get them deported, or worse.
    The night before, Tariki had gone out on the town with his security detail quietly in tow. Tonight, though, he was staying in. He had already selected the women he wanted from the password-protected website of a very expensive local procurement service and was enjoying dinner in his expansive upper-floor suite.
    His favorite dish was pheasant, and no one made it better than the head chef at the Burj. Whenever Tariki dined at the hotel, he always had the same dish. Not only did it not exist on their menu, but one of its primary ingredients—bacon—was forbidden by the Muslim faith. The white truffles that accompanied the pheasant were the most expensive mushrooms in the world, costing thousands of dollars per pound, and were hunted for with actual pigs. Washing the entire meal down with a 1978 Montrachet made the meal an indulgence that was sinful on almost every level. It was a good thing Allah couldn’t see him. But while Allah couldn’t see him, someone else most definitely could.
    The Arab was wiping the grease from the corners of his mouth when Harvath walked into his suite with a small, suppressed pistol pointed right at him.
    “Who are you?” Tariki demanded. This was a